Callie Hunter's Blog

Oh, hi guys. Back so soon, huh? That seems to be how I function. Anyway, this is a very rough introduction to my Untitled novella. It’s not been edited yet, so it may be full of errors. It’s also the first writing I’ve done since I can actually focus on writing again. What do you guys think? Where do you think the story is going? 

This is a huge work in progress. Any feedback is more than appreciated. I hope you guys like it. Please enjoy!

The light scratch on Vanessa’s fingertips felt far too familiar; they’d been here before. Too many times. One step forward, three steps back. She stroked along Adam’s jawline, her focus on his hands resting helplessly on his knees. There were very few times that she could say her husband had given in to defeat, waved his white flag and retreated from the battle of Pride. The sunken eyes rarely shifted from the same spot on the wall, blinking occasionally, completely comatose to the rational world.

 “Adam…honey.” The desperate tone barely broke through the protective bubble surrounding him. He didn’t need sympathy, he didn’t need emotional or physical support…he needed one thing, and it had slipped from his grip like granules of sand; tangible to touch, but impossible to savour. Vanessa knelt before him, her hand remaining on his cheek. “Look at me.”

 His green eyes stared right through her. No sign of life beyond the glassy orbs that had once sparkled.

 “We can get through this. No matter what we need to do. No matter how long it takes. We’re in this together. For better, for worse.”

 His fingers twitched, the material of his jeans escaped his grip.

 “Say something…”

 In an instant a slither of the Adam she had married flashed before her, like a lost lamb waiting to take his final steps of life before it could be taken away. Almost as soon as she’d seen it, it was gone. His lips parted, almost ready to speak, but silence returned for a matter of minutes. The grandfather clock ticked. The droplets of rain trailed down the double glazed windows.

 “It’s just things. Four walls. A house is not a home, Adam. Things will be okay, you have to trust me.” Vanessa took Adam’s hands in hers; she guided them to her stomach. Her fingers locked between his. “Trust us.”

 “I don’t know who I am anymore,” were the only words he could say, the only sign that her husband still existed. His hands twitched, a rigid movement soon becoming a circular stroke of his hands.

A flash of normality returned, the absent stare softened just enough for Vanessa to coax him from the shadows of his mind. “We can go anywhere. I don’t care if we don’t have a garden, if we don’t have a driveway. All we need is you. Please try, Adam.” She released his hands from her smaller grip.

 A nod of defeat marked Vanessa’s success; Adam lowered his hands from her stomach and returned them to his knees. His absent stare returned and silence returned. The clock continued to ticket until the deep sound echoed throughout the house, marking the second that their second wedding anniversary officially began.

Adam stood, towering about her. “I need a drink.”

It’s been so long…are you all well? How has life been treating since inspiration had packed her bags and left me all alone? It’s been a tough year and it seems like inspiration has finally come back, and is contemplating unpacking. What is the point of this post? Well, I suppose it’s say I hope you’ll welcome me back and you’ll enjoy my peeks of my writing when I finally get them ready to see the world.

Why not give you guys a summary of my year? Well, I’ve decided to take a break from the university degree to focus on taking care of the young child that lives inside my head. Here’s some good news–writing has always been my saviour. I’ve always loved writing…it’s always been my coping mechanism and I’ll tell you what, it’s going to be that once more. I guess that means you guys will be stuck with me popping up on your news feeds again (sorry?).

But hey,  back on point. (Distractions are all around.) I’ve actually got a few ideas on at the moment, ready to get my claws into writing, forcing inspiration to stay by my side. The first one is a novella, untitled at the moment, which focuses on a woman’s doubt in her husband as she questions everything she knows. Will she like what she finds out? Maybe. Maybe not. The second idea is a short story based around revenge. Oh yes, who doesn’t love revenge? When these ideas wake up the parts of me that strike at 3am with thoughts of “oh this idea is gonna be amazing, let’s go write this down immediately” things will once again, be stable. 

In other news, I actually have a reason to wear glasses! It’s been a long time since I’ve worn them but I’m more than happy with them. It almost makes me look my age. Almost. I’ve lost the point of this post…anyway, how have you guys been? Have you been reading anything good? Please update me. Recommend any good books. Let’s be friends.

 

(Please enjoy my face.)

Back again…Callie’s back, tell a friend.

Yes, it’s been a while. How are you all? Sadly my education has taken over my life again but alas, I’ve got that burst of creativity to finally return with a project I am very, very enthusiastic about. Are you ready? Please be ready…because I am shaking in my boots with excitement.

This story has been calling to me, and I can’t wait to get back into it. Have you all  missed me? I missed you, so very much. I’ll be giving you teasers when I’m ready for this baby and I hope you’re all ready for this.

Writing, I’ve missed you.

BUT WAIT, WHAT IS HIDE AND SEEK ABOUT?

Well, this is what Hide and Seek is about, dear readers…

‘After all, Hide and Seek can be a scary game, especially when you don’t want to be found.’

Olivia Blake can only ignore reality for so long. Lost in a world of chaos and disruption, she’s covered with the debris of her parents’ failing marriage, and overwhelmed by the monsters that plague her. For every slamming door she hears, every argument, and every heartbreaking reality, Olivia loses touch with her childhood and slips into an early state of maturity.

When the monsters from the shadows manifest inside the father she’d always loved and feared, Olivia’s innocence fades away, and is replaced by self-doubt. When danger looms, and the very heart of her family is taken away, will there be hope? Olivia has the white Christmas she had always wanted, but it’s not as she expected.

During a game of Hide and Seek in the countdown to Christmas,  will she find her monsters, or will they set her free?

I hope you’re all as excited as I am!!

I will say it, because I know it to be true, that my brain and hands are not co-ordinated. Unless I slow down the web of thoughts in my head, my hands can’t keep up. When I’m really in the mood to write and I have a limited time to do so, I speed type. If I don’t do something immediately, more likely than not, my brain will forget things.

I’ve had editors, I’ve had people read and critique my work and no matter what, errors slip through. Do you pick up fiction books and find typos, or errors in them? I sure have. It’s not the end of the world but it can be a big problem if your book (self published or not) is full of errors.

But I have gathered my list of how I spot my errors and typos in my own work.

TEXT TO SPEECH

Oh, yes. By hearing a computerised voice speak my work back, I can hear if I have a typo, a missing word, or if the sentence just doesn’t make any sense – at all. I usually do this for a paragraph at a time so I can edit as any problems make themselves known. This is a painful task, yes, but its helpful. While they can’t pronounce certain names or words (which is equally as hilarious as helpful) it is one good way to hear your work out loud and check if your punctuation is correct. If grammar isn’t your strongest point then do try to improve that skill. Read more, write more. My grammar was awful when I was younger because it was one of those things my brain was like ‘NOPE NOT TAKING THIS IN’ but with time I do believe that I have improved. Give three people the same passage and they will come back with different punctuation.

READING YOUR WORK OUT LOUD

Now I am going to admit something here that I haven’t done previously. I don’t have brilliant speech in person. In fact from a young age, I’ve had a stutter and still have it. So when I have to read my own work out, I often get stuck on common words, and this is the main reason that I don’t read my work out loud unless in an accent. This theory may work for people with good, normal speech. But you can fall into the trap of knowing what you meant to say. The computer doesn’t. It only knows your tangled mess.

READ IT IN A DIFFERENT FORMAT

I hope that makes sense, because I can’t find a better wording. When work is on a published format, it’s easier to spot errors. We all know the feeling of our best proof reading is after we hit send. Try a PDF. You can’t edit a PDF. Have your document open as you read to catch those errors. Try sending the doc to your kindle (if you have one) and you can read it like an actual book and spot those damned errors. Printing is a good one, too, you can add written comments but if you’re like me, the thought of printing a novel makes you cry because your pockets aren’t deep enough, then fear not. Change the font of your story, it always helps.

FIND AN EDITOR OR A BETA READER

If you’ve ever been on critique websites, some members will severely tell you off for having typos and say you should share your best work on there. But the point of this piece is simply that it’s difficult to self edit. Finding typos is one thing, then comes the content editing. I’m getting better at content editing and I do believe that I am making solid progress on that front.

But even editors and beta readers aren’t foolproof. You hear those stories or paying a lot for a bad, bad edit. This is the reason that if I had any money to spend, that I would make sure I spent it correctly. Different people catch different things. Nobody is perfect, but readers expect perfection.

TYPE SLOWER, READ SLOWER

I can’t stress this one enough. Typing fast leads to disasters. For those of us who grew up with MSN messenger, we learned to type damned fast. Yes, I get told by everyone “how do you type so fast” — its a skill but its not necessarily good typing. If you read slower, taking in every word, you will catch things better than if you skim. Easier said than done, I know, but if you find yourself skimming your own work, it’s a good sign that your reader could be, too.

This is all I can think of for now. Damn. If you have any tips, please share them.

A blog tour for authors – what a wonderful thing. I must say, this is the first time I’ve been invited to do one of these things so I am very excited. Thank you Tony Gilbert for the offer, and of course I’ll join in! (I recommend that you read his work, too. Why? Because he’s awesome.) Every author will answer the same four questions – and every author works differently. It’s a good insight into how we all work (and might even give us a good tips to try.)

Sound good? Let’s begin.

1) What am I working on?

At the moment, I’ve been splitting my time between editing ‘Lost and Found’ in my Still Searching series and writing. In between the excitement to return to writing ‘Infinity’ I’m also trying to do my university assignments. At a given moment, I always have a story in my mind. Little things I’ve been stuck on, how to move from A to B — it strikes when I least expect it.

I’ve finished a thriller novel called Hide and Seek and I’m very hooked onto this story. It started as a short story, and when I missed the deadline for a competition (because I forgot, firstly, and I didn’t get enough feedback to be completely happy with it) I’ve decided to expand it, and the story is flowing. It’s written from a little girl’s point of view of her parents failing relationship, and how a little sees the world. (and understands a lot more than people give her credit for).

The very first novel I wrote has been locked away for some time and it’s about time that I left him free, and returned to editing. The story means so much to me, and my writing skills have developed since I write the story so it’s time to return to my wonderful Parker Lefevre and In Between Dreams.

Honestly, you do all you can to give them life, then they stop listening to you. They grow up too fast.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Honestly, I’m not very sure how to answer this. My work typically fits under a general fiction (apart from the thriller stories that are categorised different.)

I’m strongly inspired by Ellen Hopkins and how she treats her themes. What really struck me is the focus on how the characters deal with things, not the event so much. For example, All At Once focuses on how a mother and son live with the death, the guilt, and how they attempt to return to normal life. I take inspiration from Ellen Hopkins and Sarah Kane, giving my work the desire to produce life in its rawest state.

I fell head over heels in love with Korean writer-director Kim Ki-Duk. His themes. His imagery. Everything. His raw themes, the brutality in his art touched my soul and I can’t stop my fascination. He’s such a talented man with many stories to tell about the ignored depths of life, he’s an artistic genius. Without him, I wouldn’t have the courage to touch upon the subjects that I do.

Life as it happens, the good, and the bad. Many people cast a blind eye to the themes that I write about, or have judgements on these themes without even contemplating what causes it. My work focuses on what causes these events and how my characters deal with it. Put simply, what it means to live, and to die – physically, and metaphorically.

3) Why do I write what I do?

I am fascinated by the darker aspects of life. A romance story that’s cheerful, and happy and everything is sunshine and rainbows does not catch my attention. I’m fascinated by things that inspire the darkest thoughts to pass through our minds, things that trigger emotions so strong that we struggle to control them or even understand them.

The first novel I ever wrote was centred around a young man struggling to find a will to live and when his life hits a turn for the worst – his struggle to keep his past buried and his future alive drives him to depths he hadn’t been to since his teens, In Between Dreams. (I’m happily back working on this story!)

The characters portrayed in my work are presented in a realistic manner, facing many aspects of life that are too quickly ignored, too quickly cast aside. Perhaps a part of it is therapy for me, channeling bad memories and fears, finding the good in the bad, and learning when to listen to your head or your heart.

As sad as it sounds, I am happiest when writing, when creating characters who help me to channel my feelings, fears, desires and deals with aspects of my life that I’m neglecting/avoiding. Sometimes it’s easier to handle pain or confusion in fiction than pain in real life.

4) How does my writing process work?

Simple. I get the idea. I think of what I know is solid, then I start to write. As I write, I get more ideas, and then if I hit a brick wall? Take a break, edit back what is written, or stay away from the story until my brain can untangle the web of ideas and make sense of how to guide the story.

Of course, some people plan every aspect of their story but that doesn’t work for me. Everybody is different. Some may raised an eyebrow at my method. Perhaps part of it is blind faith, but yes there have been ideas that have fizzled out – but those elements are incorporated into other stories. Hey, I’ve managed to write books with this method – why fix it if it isn’t broken?

So, with all of that said, I should pass the baton onto …

My lovely authors

Kristopher English  - Website x Facebook x Flickr

 Kris English once lived an Archer in another life but now lives in the wilds of Norfolk, UK. After following his father around the UK and Europe he has settled down and loves to write, in his spare time away from work he has travelled and take photos of beautiful places such as New Zealand, Kenya and Europe. He writes under the pen name Jack Archer and writes Sci-fi, Supernatural and fantasy.

Teri Cross Chetwood – Website x Twitter x Facebook

Teri Cross Chetwood was born in Virginia. She has lived all over the country, including Georgia, Wisconsin, Louisiana, Texas, and California. She was once the lover of six different Presidents, including that one you can’t stand. She last lived in Ohio and was used by scientists to predict earthquakes. Due to an accident with a time machine, she passed away two years before she was born. Her spirit continues to write fiction due to contractual obligations.”

Find her books here: Amazon UK – Amazon US

Alexander Chantal – Website x Twitter x Facebook

Alexander Chantal writes romance stories. His descriptions are dynamic and beautifully crafted with characters with depth and seem so real upon reading them. He won NaNo in 2013. His novel ‘Adagio’ is in the editing stages, and tells a tale very much worth reading.

For those of you who know me, you’ll know that only thing I love doing more than writing is procrastination. If there were an Olympic sport for procrastination, I’d stand a good chance at winning. In fact, it takes a lot of brain power to actively put something off for so long so on that front, well done, Brain. Your dedication impresses me to no end.

The point of this post is about my revelation today. I woke up with a genius idea to start my story with, and you know what? I thought, “that’s quite good, okay, Brain.” So I got my phone to type what I wanted while it was fresh and then I read it back. And I was hooked. You know what I’m like, I’m overly attached to my male characters. (Can somebody create a machine to create a man so I can marry one of them already? I’m running out of patience, and affection for these damaged men.)

The story was going to start with Layla post Henry (the God.) But now I’m being pulled into his spell, his damned flawless facial hair and smile, and little dimple. Is it just me, or do other writers find their heart overrules their heads and physically changes the development of the story? I was originally planning on having Layla think back on Henry during the story but now I think actually seeing him in his immoral, unethical yet undeniable love with Layla is more satisfying. And it’s another man I get to swoon over.

Does anyone else have this problem or is just me? Any male writers create female characters and you’re addicted, madly in love? The joys of being a writer.

Just so you understand exactly what swayed me to include Henry from a minor character to a bigger one, ladies, please say you understand. I didn’t want to like Henry but he made me. Please find the prologue for “Infinity” below, not completely edited – but the bare essentials that stole my heart.

Prologue

“There’s something about you.” Henry’s smooth voice was barely above a whisper, but it sent chills through Layla’s spine.

“Um, thank you, but I’m not sure I understand.” She pressed her hands to her knees. The urge to straighten her uniform left her fingers twitching, but her skirt wasn’t long enough. She couldn’t button her shirt to the top. Not now. And she didn’t want to.

“You’re a smart girl. I’m impressed.” Henry shifted closer toward her, his knee brushing against hers. “We should discus your project.”

Layla nodded and adjusted her hair. The curls had deflated, the touch of hairspray on her fingertips filled her with dread. Why did she even try to make an effort?

As Henry scanned through her project, she studied him. The faint facial hair on his jaw, the dimple on his cheek and the defined collarbone beneath his white shirt left her mesmerized.

When she looked up, she caught his eye. She cleared her throat. “I’m actually paranoid I’m completely missing the point here.” Layla tapped a paragraph and hoped to dear God he took her lead.

“Don’t be. The only possible criticism I could make is to strengthen your introduction. Outline clearly the great detail you pay to the use of metaphors, how the darker tones of the narrative compliment the authors execution of his themes. You’re on the right track.” Henry slid her project across the table and his wedding ring shimmered in the light.

Layla accepted it and slipped it into her red bag. “Thanks…” She mumbled above the sound of her shame. A stupid crush meant nothing compared to a marriage. She took a few seconds to compose herself before she stood.

A bump in her side and poor co-ordinated balance caught her off guard. The strong hands to caught her hips snapped her back to reality. She glanced up at Henry but she couldn’t say a word. He was so close she could catch his scent, see every contour on his face. There was hardly any space between then.

He stared at her before he offered a smile. “Careful.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Too busy staring in my bag.” She had never felt more embarrassed.

“Take it easy, okay?”

Layla nodded. She waited but he didn’t take his hands away. It almost felt like he enjoyed the touch as much as she did.

Henry reached out and peeled something away from face. He offered the false eyelash. “These don’t stick very well.”

“No … They don’t. Vanessa made me wear them. She thinks they look good.”

Henry took the other one off and gave it to her. “I think you look far better without them. A natural beauty.”

Layla looked down at her bag and dropped the lashes in. “I should go. My Dad is picking me up.”

Henry pulled his other hand away from her hip and released her. For a moment, she swore that she recognised the glimmer of desire in his eyes. But what did she know? A stupid girl with a stupid crush, gorgeous married men would never look at her twice.

“See you on Monday. We can go over any changes you make. Or if you need any help, feel free to ask me. I’m a multi-talented man.”

Layla smiled. “Well, I am struggling a little with History.”

“Which era?”

“Holocaust and the Cold War. So much to remember I don’t know know where to start.”

“I’ll read up and see what I can do. Take it easy, Layla.” Henry took his coat and over the shoulder bag and held the classroom open for her.

As she stepped out, she touched her cheeks. This crush had to end. Soon.

Let’s start with accepting the fact that writing a novel is not easy – it takes more than an idea, more than good writing abilities, and passion. It takes a combination of these factors, and a strong back bone.

The idea is not enough. You could have the best idea in the world, but unless you can represent that information clearly, leaving enough mystery for the reader to cling onto, you’re going to lose them. When I write my stories, I never plan the whole thing from beginning to end. Why? Because I start with a basic idea and as I write, the characters expand and the story naturally grows. In my experience (and this may not work for everyone), if I plan every aspect, my enthusiasm for the story reduces and I get bored – very quickly. And the truth is simply this, if you – the writer – are bored, and the reader will be skipping pages, or putting your book down.

There are some rules you HAVE to follow, the rest, are not cast in stone. In my experience, before I grew confidence in myself, and my writing, I took every piece of advice given to me. What happened? I was dissatisfied with the end result and honestly, it was a disappointment. The main rules I believe you HAVE to follow are to have correct grammar (because no matter what you write, grammar is universal. Unless your MC hasn’t got a good grounding on it, but that’s a risk an experimental writer may be willing to take.) I don’t follow every rule that is rammed down your throat. Never use passive voice, always show – rarely tell – but you know what? I’ve read published books that do these things and it works. I get so drawn into the story, and those things don’t bother me. If you’re a member of a critique website, you’ll be familiar with people who force their opinions onto you and change your writing style into theirs. The hardest thing to learn as a writer is to learn to say no, and stick to your gut. I know if a reader misunderstands an aspect of my story in chapter two that is fully expanded in chapter eight, I would rather wait and have that reveal at full suspense. You need to keep some suspense, there’s no need to explain everything right away. You have a whole novel to expand ideas, just keep in mind what is essential to give and when. If you’re waiting on a big reveal, don’t lose that magic by revealing it too soon.

Honesty hurts. The key is to trust your story with people to give you honest but constructive feedback. Bottom line, some people are cruel and harsh with comments, they discourage you. When you let these people win, that fire inside of you that keeps you fighting dies. You can always rely on someone to rip your story apart and you know what? Let it go. An avid Stephen King fan won’t be a fan of a sappy romance story. An avid sci-fi fan may not be a fan of a deep family drama with emotional tension that brings you to tears. Know your target audience, and know who you should listen to. It takes experience to learn what to listen to and what to ignore. Never let someone destroy your story because they don’t understand your genre, or storyline.

Writing the story is only half of the story. Editing is the real trouble. You can work with a rough first draft, not an empty page. The rough draft is always a good place to start, but the magic happens when you read it back, make your own notes, and find those “hang on a minute” moments. I know just recently, I forgot what last name I have one of my characters. There only way to fix these things is the read from the beginning, make comments, and then edit the first draft. This is often when you’ll think “what the hell does that even mean?”, “that sentence makes no sense,” and the worst “this is absolute crap.” There are times you’ll slave over perfecting a paragraph for it to be scrapped in a brutal edit. Follow Stephen King’s advice and leaves your story alone for a while before you edit. You can edit brutally, and honestly. Your readers won’t be soft on you. They will point on what works and what doesn’t. Why not save yourself to bad reviews to spot those elements yourself, then fix it, or scrap it if it can’t be saved?

This only covers some of the factors that are involved in novel writing, but it is not easy. It is painful. You will find yourself stuck on an idea so you have to stop writing the story and wait for a rush of inspiration to fill the gap (or is that just me?) It’s painful, but it’s worth it. The best person to please with your writing is yourself, your target/ideal reader, and the majority of your audience. You can’t please everyone. Don’t let bad reviews get you down.

What works for one person may not work for another person. What works for you, may not work somebody else. Two people can read the same paragraph and interpret it in a different manner. That is the nature of writing, and of art. It’s all subjective. Some will love your work, some will hate it, but are you brave enough to take those risks?

I’d love to hear about your experiences/advice for novel writing. Experienced or not, writing is a very personal thing and there is no routine that fits for everyone. Experiment, find what works for you. That’s all you can do. Don’t be afraid to break the conventions that are forced upon you. Some of the best writers do this, and they do it well. Have faith in yourself, and your characters, and you can overcome anything any critic throws at you.

Follow Aurora as she follows her path towards seeking clarity, but are some things best left unknown?

Have you got your copy yet? Get it for 99p this weekend!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Identity-Callie-Hunter-ebook/dp/B00JBKTLHS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397859853&sr=8-1&keywords=callie+hunter

http://www.amazon.com/Identity-Callie-Hunter-ebook/dp/B00JBKTLHS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397859853&sr=8-1&keywords=callie+hunter

Noah and Elle Adams have been together for six years, and married for three. As the distance between them grows, Noah gradually pieced the hints of the puzzle together but what he discovered isn’t what he had hoped for. In a final attempt to communicate with his wife, the woman he hardly recongised anymore, Noah had to put aside his pride and admit defeat. Will they survive, or will their marriage go down in flames?

O N E

The last time he and Elle sat down together, the last time they shared a bottle of wine, a smile, a moment of intimacy.

The sound of running water splashed against the white porcelain bathtub. Noah rubbed his hair down with a towel and glanced at his reflection; the stubble was enough to resemble a beard, but short enough to maintain his ‘boyish’ good looks. He smiled briefly, but it faded before he knew it. When was the last time he’d heard those words? Eight months ago.

‘Elle, honey, where are you?’ He glanced back at the doorframe, peering into the empty hallway. The light beamed onto the cream carpet and he recognised Elle’s shadow from the bedroom. ‘Elle?’ Noah slung the towel over his shoulder. He wiped his feet on the striped bath mat and exited the bathroom, approaching the bedroom and held the towel up around his waist. Poking his head around the doorframe, he recognised her lifeless expression. ‘Elle.’

Her mahogany hair fell over her shoulders and her distant hazel eyes locked with his but she quickly dropped her gaze. ‘Sorry, did you say something?’

He nodded. ‘Um, I asked where you were.’

‘Well, you found me.’ She fiddled with the hem of her nightdress. ‘I’m going to have an early night.’

‘But I’ve already booked the restaurant for tonght.’ He gripped the towel around his waist.

She blinked. ‘Booked?’

‘It’s our wedding anniversary.’

She parted her lips as if to speak, but no words escaped. Elle straightened her dress and cleared her throat. ‘Oh, right. I suppose I’d better get dressed then. When are we leaving?’

‘Twenty minutes.’

Elle slipped her fingers though her hair. ‘Okay.’

She reached into the open wardrobe and tugged an evening gown out. The black dress was slim-fit, just above the knee and sweet Jesus, she looked perfect whenever she slipped it on.

She looked at it for three seconds before she put it back in, and tugged a loose pastel green gown out instead. It didn’t flatter her curves, nor her lightly tanned complexion. She’d taken a particular liking to it two years ago but he didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, it didn’t enhance her figure in any way.

Elle’s hand brushed against his as she passed.

Noah looked into her eyes and found emptiness staring back at him. ‘Happy anniversary, honey.’

She offered a smile as she walked passed him, disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door. Peace and quiet had never felt more foreign; no laughter filled the air, no life radiated inside the same four walls that felt more like a prison than a home.

The towel around his waist hit the floor. Noah stepped over it and strolled to the open wardrobe. Several dresses fell to the floor when he pulled the oak door open. Noah hung them back up, and remembered the colour-coded organisation Elle used to have. Now her red had merged with her blue, and chaos took over. Noah shifted his gaze to his collection of suits.

He narrowed his options to the navy or black pinstripe. After much debate, he tugged the black one from the rail and hooked a green tie around his little finger, pulling them both out and setting them on the bed.

He pulled his drawer open and pawed through the various pairs of socks. How many times did he run out of underwear? Had Elle done the washing this week? He sighed and sat on the bed, expanding his search to his emergency drawer. Where were they? He knocked several boxes of prescription medicine aside but found nothing of relevance.

‘Great.’ Noah scanned through the storage beneath the bed, finding a black bag full of clothes he hadn’t worn for years. He pulled the waistcoat out and smiled at the sight. He hadn’t worn it since his wedding day – perhaps it would re-ignite the flame of romance that was left smoky and near extinguished.

He dropped it to the bed and glanced at Elle’s bedside table. Could she have put his washing in with her own? He opened her drawer and pawed through the laced and silk underwear he hadn’t seen for weeks. He hooked his finger around the waistband of his black boxers and tugged them out.

Something plastic poked out of her ‘world’s best wife’ socks. Noah tugged it out and squinted. There it was, clear as day, bold letters revealing the essential puzzle piece. One word that shattered his hopes – pregnant. He sighed. How long had she had this for? Footsteps approached. He threw the test into the drawer and closed it. He slipped the boxers on and turned around in time for Elle to return.

‘What are you doing on my side of the bed?’ There was no paranoia in her voice, only exhaustion.

‘I was just getting dressed. I shouldn’t be long.’ He slipped his trousers on and buttoned them up. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

Noah shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You just seem distracted. Long day?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess.’

‘Okay, well, why don’t you wait for me in the living room? I just need a few more minutes.’

Elle nodded then disappeared from sight, her footsteps trailing away. Noah pressed his palms together, closing his eyes tightly. Maybe it was old, something she’d been keeping secret for a while – but there was only one way to find out.

#

‘A glass of red for the lady and a diet Coke for you, sir.’ The brunette waitress put the drinks down to the table, finding space between the dishes.

If she had chosen a bigger table rather than a tiny table for two in the very corner of the restaurant, she wouldn’t have to find room around a small salad dish and his steak main.

‘Thank you.’ Noah’s monotone didn’t earn a smile from the young woman.

‘Enjoy the rest of your meal.’

He wanted to laugh. Enjoy the rest of the meal? They’d hardly said a word to each other. Noah pushed his boiled potatoes around the plate, scraping the skin away from the remnants on the cutlery. He put the knife down and looked at Elle doing the same to her chicken salad.

‘Hard day?’

She nodded.

‘Enlighten me.’ He folded the napkin on the table and put it on his lap.

‘Cardiac arrest.’

‘Patient okay?’

She nodded.

‘Good.’ He tapped his fingertips against the table, his eyes never leaving her natural face. Her hazel eyes seemed huge without any mascara, and without her rosy lipstick, her lips were a light pink. He nibbled his lower lip and waited for her attention. She seemed far more interested in the wallpaper than her own husband. ‘Who is he?’

She glanced aside at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Noah sighed. ‘I don’t want an argument, Elle, I just want to talk.’

She shrugged. ’I don’t.’

Noah stabbed the remainder of his steak and nudged it to the side of the plate, nudging a few lettuce leaves onto the table. He looked at them, but didn’t pick them up. ‘Some anniversary.’

Elle sipped her wine and checked her watch. The watch he bought her for their first wedding anniversary, the very one she’d been eyeing for months, but could never quite afford.

‘You’re not touching your food.’

She put her cutlery down. ‘I don’t feel very well.’

‘Sick?’

She shrugged.

Noah cleaned his mouth with the napkin and threw it down to the table. He had to bite his lip to stop the words from flowing. He took a large sip of his drink and focused on the ring on her left hand. It had been loose for a few months. It’s a miracle she hadn’t lost it yet.

What had his life come to? Twenty-four and married. Twenty-four and staring at the blank wall of his future. He put the glass down. ‘Do I know him?’

Elle stroked her fingers through her hair and watched the waitress stroll by with a plate full of dessert.

‘Elle—’

‘No. Just stop.’ She threw her napkin down and grabbed her bag from the back of the chair. ‘I want to go home now.

‘Fine.’ He pulled his wallet from his pocket and scanned through for his credit card. Whenever he caught Elle’s eye, something colder than pewter fuelled with the stare; he didn’t recognise her anymore. The woman opposite him, wearing an identical wedding ring, was a complete stranger.

#

Noah threw his clothes into the hamper and tightened the string on his pyjamas. He reached for the blankets in the top shelf of the wardrobe and tugged a feather pillow from the pile a few compartments beneath the spare bedding. He turned around to find Elle standing in the doorway, fiddling with her nightdress, watching like a hawk. As if she could see right through him.

‘You should take the bed.’

She nodded. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll take the couch.’

She nibbled her lower lip. ‘Noah—’

‘Goodnight, Elle. Happy anniversary.’

She blinked and a tear escaped. ‘Goodnight.’

T W O

One week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty eight hours.

Everyday Noah waited for an answer, but it never came. After four days of sleeping on the couch, Elle had given in. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her tearful eyes and pale skin – but it was her mousy voice that thawed his refusal to co-operate, to communicate. Those three words shattered any resistance – baby, come on – and if truth be told, he had missed his pillow. The comfortable mattress had moulded perfectly to his body.

Noah clung to the duvet, gazing out at the rainy Monday morning. He listened to Elle’s quiet movements, careful as she was. He hadn’t slept as well as he usually did. The torturous thoughts didn’t settle. They refused to disperse, hide in his subconscious. They had to stand at the forefront, parading in his mind at all times.

‘Honey?’ Elle touched his bare shoulder but he didn’t move. ‘I’m doing a long day today.’

‘Okay. Make sure you have lunch.’

‘Will you be okay on your own today?’

He nodded.

‘Okay, I’ll bring dinner home.’

‘That would be nice.’ He focused on the droplets of rain on the window; they formed a larger blob before they trickled down; he traced the movement until it disappeared from sight.

‘Well, see you later.’

He nodded.

The door closed and he finally let a sigh release. He closed his eyes again. Maybe he’d be able to sleep now. But whenever he allowed sleep to lure him, all he could picture was the collision of bare skin, Elle’s fingers through her mystery man’s hair. He rolled over and took shallow breaths, begging sleep to take him, to suffocate him.. He pressed the pillow to his ear, blocking as much noise as he could. The voices in his head refused to follow suit, refused to silence.

A sudden vibration on the bedside table caused his heart to skip a beat. He opened his eyes and sat up quickly. Noah grabbed his phone and opened the flip case.

Melanie. He sighed and answered it. ‘Hey, Mel.’

‘Where are you, sleepy head? I thought we were meeting at eleven.’

He glanced at his alarm clock. ‘Shit, sorry, I’ll be there.’

‘Are you alright? You’ve been … really weird. You didn’t even laugh at my cat joke yesterday.’

Noah scratched his head. ‘Sorry. I’m not really feeling myself at the moment.’

‘I hear that coffee and treating a friend to lunch helps.’

He laughed. ‘You’d do anything for a free meal.’

‘Yes, I would, and you promised me we’d do weeks ago. Remember when Dennis kicked me out and I had to go to work in dirty clothes, looking a mess? You promised we’d do this. Come on, it’ll be fun. I might even feel you up.’

Noah nodded. A promise was a promise. ‘I might not be brilliant company.’

‘I spent three years with Dennis – I know how to deal with a grumpy bastard.’

Noah laughed. ‘I’m a grumpy bastard now, am I?’

‘It’s a figure of speech. I’m ordering another coffee and putting it on your tab if you’re not here within twenty minutes.’

He pushed the covers aside and stepped down to the fluffy rug, wriggling his toes, begging the warmth to pulsate through him. ‘I’m getting ready now.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay? I’m worried about you.’

‘Just got a lot on my mind.’

‘So tell me about it.’

He opened the wardrobe and tugged a pair of jeans and a shirt from their allocated spaces. ‘I don’t want to bore you to tears.’

‘You listened to me when I complained for England about Dennis.’

‘That’s different.’

‘Nonsense. I’ll bribe it out of you if I have to.’

There was no arguing with Melanie. In a sense, it was his favourite thing about her. She was a strong woman – she knew what she wanted and she wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of it. Strong women always fascinated him, if not, overwhelmed him at the same time. ‘Alright. I’ll be there.’

#

Anxieties that blocked his rational thinking, stopped all positive thoughts and only bred misery were finally shed. A wave of relief followed. He poked his finger into his lukewarm coffee. Had he really been talking for that long? One steaming hot – now barely warm enough to consume. He downed the coffee anyway, Why waste it? Besides, it was Melanie’s treat. She rarely treated him.

From the look of her vacant expression and parted lips, she couldn’t find words to ease his concerns. He’d never seen her speechless before. Perhaps Elle should have an affair more often.

‘You’re quiet. It’s nice.’ Noah grinned.

‘How can you joke right now?’ Her dark tone almost teased him back into self-pity.

‘It’s not a big deal.’

‘Not a big deal? Shit, Noah. You two were so happy.’

He shrugged. ‘I thought so, too. But I’d appreciate it if you could keep this to yourself. I don’t want to become the office gossip.’

Melanie shook her head. ‘Of course. It’s got to be awful finding out like that. Has she not spoken to you about it?’

Noah pushed his coffee cup aside and picked at the crumbs of tiffin on the small white plate. ‘I don’t want to talk about. Neither does she. Ignorance is bliss.’

‘Who would have guessed it – you and I, stuck with bastards? Well, I’m free now. You’re still married to her …’

Marriage. A life time commitment. Until death do us part. Did Elle remember those vows? Their wedding day was perfect; small, close friends and family. Who needed flashy venues or over-the-top parties? The ring on his finger was all he needed.

‘… Earth to Noah. Are you alive?’

He looked up to find Melanie’s dark eyes gazing back at him. He shifted his attention to her red lips. ‘You have a little something there.’

Melanie wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about Elle. Do you know what’s going on with her?’

‘She’d been distant. We haven’t … been intimate for a while. All the signs are there, but I don’t want to believe it. Everyone thought I’d be the one to cheat on her, do you remember?’

Melanie suppressed a grin. ‘Her brother wasn’t your biggest fan.’

‘He fucking hates me.’

‘What did you do to him anyway? Don’t say nothing – because I know you, Noah Adams.’ Melanie reached over the table for a piece of tiffin, then shovelled it into her mouth.

‘I don’t know. We bought her the same birthday present one year. That’s about it. I treat Elle like a princess. What am I doing wrong, Mel? Educate me in the world of women, what goes through your crazy heads?’

Melanie leaned back in the chair, brushing the crumbs away from her lips. ‘Even I don’t have a clue. You know sometimes I wake up and I’m an emotional bomb waiting to explode – why? I don’t know. Women are a mystery.’

‘Great, I’ll never understand Elle.’ Noah slipped his hand through his hair. ‘You’re simple.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘You say what you mean. You’re blunt. You get right to the point.’

‘Yes, but that’s also why most men prefer a lion cub to a lioness. I’m too much woman for most men.’ Melanie smiled, but it faded quickly. ‘Have you ever considered that … I don’t know.’

‘That … what?’

Noah had never seen such concentration on Melanie’s face. ‘Have you ever considered that maybe you married the wrong woman?’

Noah shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just know I want more of this.’ He nudged the empty plate before him, only crumbs of biscuit and raisins left on the plate. ‘You ate everything.’

‘Fine, the next piece is on me. But then you’re taking me to lunch. Maybe catch a movie. Do you have anywhere to be?’

Noah checked his watch, Elle wouldn’t be home until half past nine. ‘Not really. I was going to start a new book.’

‘Fancy keeping me company? I need help unpacking my stuff. I forgot how annoying moving out is. I’ll buy dinner – please, Noah?’ She batted her lashes and pouted.

‘Okay, fine. But I ‘m having dinner with Elle tonight.’

‘Dessert, then. Please?’

‘Okay. Thanks for this … seeing me today. I’ve been going crazy.’

‘Does it make you feel better, get it off your chest, clear your mind?’

Noah nodded. ‘It does. I’m lucky. You’ve listened to my whining for the past ten years.’

‘I should be a therapist.’ She reached into her bag for her navy floral purse and smiled, her auburn curls falling over her shoulder. ‘Another coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

Melanie joined the queue for the front counter.

Noah looked at his wedding ring, clenching his fingers into a fist, tilting his head to the side to see the glimmer and shimmer from a different angle. What would she bring home for dinner? They hadn’t had pizza for months, but Elle’s craving for spice was on the rise. He sighed. His first day off for weeks and he spent it wallowing in self-pity.

‘I don’t like that face. Stop it.’ Melanie put the plate to the rounded table and nudged it closer. ‘Cheer up before I eat it for you.’

‘How’s your new place?’ He broke the chocolate mass in half.

‘Empty at the moment. I can’t actually reach the lights to put a bulb in – they don’t even provide it for you. Cheeky buggers.’

Noah smiled. ‘ I guess that’s my job, is it?’

‘Yes, it is. But it’ll be fun! I promise.’

Noah rolled his eyes. ‘Fun for who?’

‘For me. Come on, hurry up. I want sushi for lunch.’

‘I want steak.’

Melanie groaned. ‘Sushi.’

‘Steak.’

‘Chicken?’ She pouted.

‘Fine, let’s go to Nandos.’

Now, I’ve recently had a conversation with a fellow writer about how much attention I give to description in my first draft. Honestly? Not much.

To me a first draft is about getting the story down – if that’s pure telling, then so be it. In a second draft you can work on spicing things up, turning simple language into beautiful prose.

I’ll share an example with you from my WIP called Bruised. Now when I wrote Bruised, I didn’t really have a brilliant grasp on tenses, or grammar. It proves to me how much I have learned about writing. I have the bare basics for this story but the technical aspects need tightening. The story is all there, so easy job, right?

Look at this passage from my first draft from Chapter Nine.

At first Evelyn sat outside the door, listening to everything Hunter said: … yes, sir, of course, no worries at all …

After a while, she huffed and hopped onto the couch, shuffling aside until comfortable. Rubbing the sore spot on her thigh, she looked at the closed door to her left. It must be important, why else would he call the person sir? Hopefully he wasn’t in any trouble, she always associated the word ‘sir’ with the principal whenever she got in trouble. It was rare, but it had happened.

When I read this back my first thought was ‘wait, what?’ And I’ll tell you why. I was so worried about getting the story down that I didn’t give each action time to shine and have it’s moment.I don’t know how this got through my old critique website without being slaughtered – and when I edited the piece, I changed it to this.

All of the story was in my head but it was badly executed. I know that with my skills and knowledge of the story I can improve writing like this to something more like this …

Evelyn pulled her legs to her chest and pressed her ear against the closed door. All she heard was Hunter’s voice, he sounded so serious – it was strange: yes, sir, of course, no worries at all …

Ugh, grown up stuff.

After a while, she huffed and abandoned post. She hopped onto the couch, shuffling aside until comfortable. “Stupid couch.” Evelyn rubbed her thigh until the sore spot went away. How could she live in this place with a broken sofa? Even Mama had a nice sofa.

She looked at the closed door to her left. It must be important, why else he call the person sir? Hopefully he wasn’t in any trouble, she always associated the word ‘sir’ with the principal whenever she got in trouble. It was rare, but it had happened. But it was never her fault … never.

It’s a lot stronger. It makes sense. Grammatically (forgive me if there are still errors) It’s a lot better.

I know some people who write flawless description. On the first drafts, it’s perfect. Bam. I envy them. I like to believe that my natural talent is for dialogue. Having graduated in Film Studies and my modules in screenwriting really taught me the art of dialogue so I feel a particular anger towards bad dialogue. (Terrible, I know, but it’s important.’

Here are some examples of my awesome writer friend’s work. They are awesome, and I’ll demonstrate how good their writing is.

Eliza swept past Dale and marched out to the moving van to retrieve the painting. Dale lingered in the kitchen, attempting to look busy by re-arranging boxes. He stopped to watch Eliza’s heavy stride out to the van, where all of their possessions sat strapped like prisoners in the back.  Ignoring the eyes of the removal men, she lifted the painting from the far corner of the van and held it loftily, her arms raised high above her head.

There was something glorious about her ascent into the van – the twists and curves of her small frame amongst the bulky furniture, the fluttering flexes of her muscles as she lifted the painting above her head. A familiar sense of pride and admiration swelled in Dale’s chest.

Of course, the other men were watching too. The hired removal men were standing at the side of the pavement, sharing a cigarette. The paper seemed to burn quicker under the heat of their eyes as they watched Dale’s wife weaving between boxes. Dale wanted to put out a chivalrous arm in front of her, or to grab a fistful of her hair, anything to stake a claim in her. But all he did was watch her, carrying the painting, from the kitchen window.

Read more Cellars by Hannah Loughrey.

Its flawless. It’s perfect. I envy this talent and with this as my inspiration, I love when I read her work and it’s perfectly written. How I write, what feels good to me, I might achieve this after three or four re-writes, not early drafts.

Another friend of mine has exceptional talents like Hannah,

The rain kept on pouring, soaking his dark hair with cold relentless bullets dripping down his face; becoming one with his tears. Muddy, swollen feet, slushing through the mud; he could hear nothing more than the continuous rhythm of the impacting shells, on the distance, the pitter patter of rain upon his uniform and the shallow beating of his terrified heart. His hands were shaking violently at the sound of footsteps; a terrifying feeling of nausea and fear sinks beneath his skin. Rummaging through his pockets, the .30-06 Springfield rounds fell on the mud. Kneeling on blood stained dirt, he grabbed each bullet and wiped it with his shirt. The rifle sunk in his arms, trembling, unable to fit each bullet into the clip.

The Spanish, they called him. He was surrounded by Gringos, or that’s what he called them. People forgot where he came from, till he spoke. The thick Spanish accent that escaped his lips was conspicuous in any conversation. Now, in the middle of nowhere, he wished that someone would be there by his side. The scent of rain brought back memories of his beloved homeland; warmth and kindness, he misses all that. The sounds of his siblings, a tug of war for affection; life was so simple.

Something cold pressed against his neck, yes, he had nearly forgotten; a small necklace made with different types of tree barks he had collected over his journey. It all seemed so meaningless now. Placing the clip on the rifle, he pressed the, nearly frozen, bolt all the way to the back till it clicked. Holding his rifle across his chest, he steadied his movements. Breaking slowly, he aimed down the barrel squinting at the slow movements across the flooded, icy battlefield.

Read more of Red, White and Green Dust by Alexander Chantal.

This quality of description is what I aspire to. While these authors are unpublished (at the moment!) they still inspire me. Writing is a very subjective thing and for me, too much description make me skim the page for the next dialogue. But these two authors above perfectly capture what I enjoy reading.

Their first drafts are often technically brilliant. It’s alright for some, isn’t it? I’d hate them for their skills if I didn’t love them so much.

What is your view on first drafts and second drafts? Are you concerned with Description or getting the story down in your first draft? What methods works for you?